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Carter Ginter Oct 2014
My stiff arms hit the metal of the door as I force it open, against
the chilled fist of wind, pounding hard upon the glass
windows and then equally upon my face and forearms. It had to be
below 50 degrees, but I had hoped that the cold could help me
feel again. Feel something. Unfortunately,
this ice only froze my fingers, leaving
my body as numb as my mind.

Later, as I rid my machine of the cloth concealment, protecting
the scars laced into my skin. The water boils as I
examine my life-lines, these battle scars, in the mirror and
can only cringe in thought of the disappointment drowning
the faces of those I care about most: their eyes
drooping down with the weight of eyebrows, creased
diagonally, half shock and the other half burning
discontentment. They purse their lips and stab my eyes
with their daggers, when I chuckle nervously.

I shake my head of these thoughts from my speculation and
step into the steam, hoping the heat could help me
feel again. However, the fire does not scorch my
body, nor incinerate the emptiness, it only slides
down the marble sculpture my body feels to be
(equivalent to the concrete barrier that builds behind my eyes)
unnamed Jun 11
pastel skin like marble
metamorphic rock
subjected to heat,
pressure.
hair like amber
no, sun touched gold.
pretty/brittle
resistant to tarnish
brittle
marble and gold
you are refined
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
I am not the master of my writing

-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Robert Ronnow Sep 2015
Science can't save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare's 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers' eyes.
Which is why we call it "the wound that never heals."
Or the lesion that's always lengthening. And bleeding.

Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It's not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.

It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your little mind (realizing of course it's just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I'm
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry - also a wound that never heals.

Snow for eternity, that's what this February's been.
All to the good, for someone it's the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway.
That was Shakespeare's message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who's Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does it relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.

The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not affect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don't get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.

The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife's grandfather's inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I'll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private ****** acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities - angels, ghosts, aliens - are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you'll feel.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Paper. Pen.
    Let's write out our feelings.
    "I'm having a rough time."
Cell phone
Online recipes.
    I should cook that soon.
Hotel websites.
    Free breakfast? Eh I'm vegan now so just fruit.
    Swimming pool? I'm sure it'll be busy
    Fitness center. Leo wants to run in the morning.
    Booked. Could be a good night.
Paper. Pen.
    Right. Writing.
    "I can tell journaling is helpful
    because I'm resistant to doing it."
Text messages.
    Leo thinks they were too mean to me.
    I think I deserve it.
    I love you.
Paper. Pen.
    Hm. I should write some poetry.
Photos.
    Wow look at how my face has changed, let's make a collage.
    Oo what else.
    Body pictures.
    Pre-surgery picture.
    Damm I've really sculpted up.
    Reconsiders feeling gross physically.
    Arguable.
Paper. Pen.
    How easy it is to ignore you.
    How easy it is to ignore myself
    And not listen to my feelings.
I am very good at avoiding acknowledging my feelings. I'm working on being more aware of it.
Jen Nov 2018
Take away something real, fiction
Hold it in your arms, metaphysical
Friction, Oh, hyper-monitor diction to
Take hold of nonexistent, nonsensical
Non-fiction; How it slips from fingers
Ever distant, moving yet arthritic; much so,
This life fades, Drowning in indifference
In the future not far; Traces fill the spaces
That hold your heart back as if paralytic.
Become resistant, To feel alive in life here.
If only to replay the best yesterdays;
When tomorrow is clean-slated fate,
Today is an oil smudged rainy sidewalk,
There is a Specter, an owl on a high pole;
In the light of fluorescence a ****** there,
Eyes glow; what does the wise one know?
Liam hopson Sep 2018
I DREAM OF A LIFE
THATS MORE FREE AND FUN LOVING
NO MORE MONEY
NO MORE WAR
MUCH MORE GIVING
MUCH LESS LAW

HAVE WE FORGOT THE REASONS FOR OUR EXISTENCE
NO MORE HATE
NO MORE RESISTANT
MUCH MORE LOVE
EMBRACE OUR BRILLIANCE

NOW IS OUR CHANCE TO LOOK EACH OTHER IN THE EYES
NO MORE DIVISION
NO MORE LIES
MUCH MORE UNITY
WE ARE ALL ALLIES
Just my opinion.
ryn Aug 2014
Tell me why it seems like the walls are closing in
Tell me why my hopes they're stretched far and thin
Tell me why my dreams still struggle in this fight
Tell me why every time I draw air but it feels so tight.

Tell me why in this turmoil my heart does wallow
Tell me why lifes' lessons by the heapfuls I choke to swallow
Tell me why I'm somewhat free but then again I am not
Tell me why I really do have but I haven't really got.

Tell me why I try to sleep many a restless night
Tell me why I am so afraid of many a fearful fright
Tell me why I still feel the way I have felt before
Tell me why I ask many questions which leaves me broken and sore.

Tell me why so much emotions run amok within me
Tell me why I look yet I do not really see
Tell me why despondence is back; it's here to haunt
Tell me why such uncertainties always beckons to taunt.

Tell me why I want more but I am quite contented
Tell me why I have to accept the path I've very much resented
Tell me why I already know but I still keep on asking
Tell me why it seems like the reasons are in every way lacking.

Tell me why I feel so happy but in fact I am so sad
Tell me why it all seems unfair but I have to be glad
Tell me why I found love in the most unfortunate circumstance
Tell me why to a mournful tune I am stuck in dance.

Tell me why my heart feels engorged but I can't release it all
Tell me why I am so scared but I would still want to fall
Tell me why I feel you close when you're farther than far
Tell me why it seems incredulous that we share the same star.

Tell me why I long to give you more when I can't this instant
Tell me why I can feel better but I seem so resistant
Tell me why sometimes I look up and curse at my luck
Tell me why I refuse to focus on courage that I really should pluck.

Tell me why I lay in bed dreaming of a place far away
Tell me why I find myself moping more and more each day
Tell me why I chose to be naive and in fate I do give trust
Tell me why time and time again it just gets ground to dust.

Tell me why I feel so beaten and weak when I should be strong
Tell me why I am so familiar in a place I don't belong
Tell me why I have to live with a mask on my face
Tell me why I feel like a marionette strung up by lace.

Tell me why I dug deep when these words make me cry
Tell me why the tears still trickle when my eyes are dry
Tell me why I share this when I know you would feel bad
Tell me why I would even spout the words that make you sad.

Tell me why these painful wounds I didn't choose to lick
Tell me why I didn't let them heal but instead I would pick
Tell me why I feel as though I am quite addicted
Tell me why it seems like I enjoy the dark I've inflicted.

Tell me why sometimes I question, the things you see in me
Tell me why you've said it many times but I don't really see
Tell me why I haven't drifted far when I should've a while ago
The reason is you; because you have chosen to love me.
Anya Apr 18
We are empty
Our feelings spilled all over
the floor
A reflection of dark moon in
the puddles
There is nothing left
All the memories of the sun,
shine no more
Buried, deep down in the shadows

Our fortified walls,
built persistently over the years
Grew resistant and sturdy
A lost echo, of a thousand
love messages
Rings quietly in the dark
Never reaching our hearts

We are so far away
Even when we are together
The reflection of dark moon
locked in our eyes
And we feel its power, every
time we look at each other

All I hope for
Is a glimpse of the sun shining
through our hearts
Filling us up, with rays of love
To remember again what we
used to have
And to crumble down our walls
I find sleep quite amiable
less resistant
after touching
timpani and tiger
prowling
Your other wilderness

It’s my undoing
after we have done what we did
Physically akin
Our own skin held close
Tingling with tender cooing
Gooseflesh, quivering in
the miasma of life's (bowels)
howling, bowdlerizing
the sensations of our
everyday heaven.

I find sleep more pliable
after a swim in you
and I taste myself
in the salt
of our commingling
skins
Tingling
swathed in mouths
and primrose
fragrant waterfalls
thunderclouds
and rain

Seed & Petrichor
in the aftermath,
The ******,  one victory
within and about
our dance of skin

I am washed away
a tiny death
a cry to heaven

I am naked
when you're not clothed on me
how strange to need you to swim
I find dreams much better
aloft
my second skin...
Revised
derailed-trains Oct 2018
it's like we never left mt. calvary
2018 is 2015 again
only my escapist mechanisms
no longer work
i get lost in this endless cycle
of troughs and crests
this constant pursuit for a home
is like a sickness that never gets better
these pathogens that have found
refuge in my heart have grown
ultra-resistant to the medicine
they no longer want to leave
why do i still wake up?
i've been asking for deliverance
for years but
i guess heaven is not a
wish-granting factory
and God is not a genie
do you miss our catching-up
sessions?
the ones where you ask me
if i can still get up
in the morning and
i ask you if you still
cry yourself to sleep at night
oh, right, those never happened,
because you never had
the strength to care
and i never had
the guts to ask
for time
and maybe that's why
whenever i try to write
it always ends up as
an apology letter
(that you won't ever get to read)
Sebastian Nov 2018
You turn around,
You call my name
But I no longer believe the same;
There's paper stacked upon your window pane.

The clocks are worn,
My boots are torn,
They've come some way since they were born
And things that shine often do not conform.

A whisper here
Is a thunder there,
A glass of wine to lay it bare;
Don't tell me silence dwells behind that stare.

You don't run fast
Because you must;
It's fine to break out from your crust
And build a smile that's free from all your lust.

We're far apart
But all the same;
Forget the shapes and forms and blame
And you will see we walk down the same lane.

I walk through eyes
So close and distant
Depending on how long the instant;
Some grow warm while others grow resistant.
Umi Jan 25
A shaking sensation,
Beautiful, tiny long legs dance their way up,
To the ceiling, waiting for the covering darkness,
In order to hunt small pests, with a resistant web.

~ Umi
Daddy Longlegs are cute.
Imagine this centered: And lunch with Kirk and Uncle Bubby

Even the birds are staying home today
Those flocks and flights whose accustomed spirals
Make animate the skies are grounded by frost
And leave the waters of the marsh in peace

Young men uniformed in Nomex 1 and beards
Spiral into Hollier’s Cajun Kitchen
From the barges and the maintenance shops,
Cracking units, pipelines and hotshot rigs

They are smart, tough, and strong; they fuel the world
And pose for pictures with the concrete pig 2


1 Nomex is a flame-resistant material developed by DuPont and is worn by workers in many industries, especially petro-chemicals.  The man or woman in Nomex keeps our cars, our lights, and our lives functioning.

2 There are in fact two concrete pigs outside Hollier’s (pronounced “O-Yays,” says Uncle Bubby).
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.


Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Pete King Dec 2018
We stand alone in December  air,
The moon our only spotlight.
Amidst a claustrophobic silence
I probe my brain for sweet relief.
Fingers twitch on the vice in my hand;
To blow away my cares,
In dancing rings into the wind,
But still, I cannot speak.

Though I try, I find my words are fleeting;
My lips remain resistant.
And despite how I may want to,
I can't seem to ever say
How much I wish to have your smile
Be so close to mine,
That I could play 'connect-the-dots',
With freckles on your cheek.

So, I hide myself in a thousand miles;
Yet only several feet away.
And I'll isolate the prologue
Of a story yet to start.
Because longing from a distance
Is all I'll ever have;
Each futile gaze I throw your way,
Will further steal my heart.
Stu Nov 2018
Themes of my former self are beginning to arouse my brain yet again.
States of dark discomfort are starting to show themselves as beacons of light in this strange season.
Possibly to save me from an emptiness much worse than their own,
Or possibly because it is the price I must pay for trying to rid them from my mind like the body does toxins.

I feel their cold nails ripping into my head,
Running a frozen drip down my spine.
They feast on my self-esteem,
And leave a haze on my judgment.
The days consist of fear and emotional turmoil,
At night, I only hope to make it to the next day.

I find it incredibly horrifying to say,
but I am not entirely resistant to this chaos.
Once they arise, I voluntarily retreat into their catacombs.
They act as a guide through the months of frozen life and tell me I must feel their pain,
That it is wrong for me to feel anything else.
Am I weak for succumbing to the torture they force upon me?
Is it insane to find small comforts in their twisted reality?

Surely, my dear friends, I know the answers.
I beg of you please, do not worry about my safety.
Come the days that thaw my bones,
I will be free once again.
I will have survived, as I always have before.
It's funny how fast things within yourself can change.
a magician never reveals their
tricks to the joker is what you’d
told you that sunday night last
september as you had sloppily
crashed into a river and made
both of our cold bones shiver.
we both knew this was not a
typical drive down the road
because you had broken the
moral code and would soon
be toad while i lay with still
bones and a frantic call home
on a stretcher in the back of
an ambulance with hands
holding my body together
as you asked the police to
give you a moment so you
could have a breather and
a smoke or two because
you knew you were through.
they asked if you wanted to
leave me alone and head
down to the police station
and you just shrugged like
this was not your creation
because your court costs
were more expensive than
the knowledge of my pain
and i wished I had caught
that last sunday night train
instead of drinking with you
in the rain and making fog
against the window pane.
i was told not to move as
i waited for the helicopter
and you were pushed up
against the side of a cop
car and cuffed with angry
resistant will and the tears
spilled down hard and fast
from your pretty little face
because for once i would
not save your ****** ***
and get you out of this gory
mess that had turned your
sunday best into a disgrace
and made my bones buckle
and cry out for some rest
for they had been pressed
and strained under the now
drowned window pane with
blood creating a vivid stain.
your head ducked down as
you were pushed into the back
of the car and you glanced up
to see my motionless mangled
body watching from afar.
how’s that for a date night?
you laughed as the tube
down my throat made me
cough and the police officer
gave you a stern look before
slamming the door on your
smirking face so hard that
the car shook like my body
did with hollow echoing sobs
that made my eyes run like the
river that had made both of us
shiver as you had claimed that
the joker would always deliver
even if the magician would not
reveal their spells for the joker
had his own secret way to hell.
3 May 6
the resistant does clatter
its ends against the machinery,
it does so clunk and rattle
against the current which runs through
to the chosen one, the
Brother of Entropy, his unwavering
foot-heel in the doorway
between Insanity, and Stability.

He does, however,
take some time away from
his breathing, amounting
to a few moment’s silence.

In this cold night, he
holds no name or title. Not yet.
The world is not ready for
his being, and his being
remains underdeveloped enough
that its energy is just shy of a sunlight’s beam

and so he sings
to the empty halls,
the resistant current,
the rusted gears,
                           “Where do the old souls go?
                             Here? There? Or inbetween?
                             Do we matter to matter? Are
                             we warm and foreboding enough
                             to bear resistance to the dark?”

The dark dances
between candlelight. Brother, father, creator:
it means nothing to that which
cannot see goodness, or light.

And so he breathes again,
and shoves his boot further through
the door
calculate, the
Intro: Lost in the Philadelphia Cold of the twelfth month, our protagonist orients his mind in a fading frost under the p.m. blue blanket above  

Resistant Masterpiece
her flesh drawn on the back of a Western Sky:::

sketch her, my amber autumn sun descended, always wicked with winter intentions,
...bandit thoughts unending,  
...eyes watching,
...she steals another day

blushing colors infect me::: that lust contagion::: the drip drop of chromatic desire falls on a faded floor
I still see (seek) her
in all her in autumnal glory
to again be a bewitched and press perspiration upon ruby red flesh
like a favorite Baroque portrait
against the widening winter wall
stopdoopy Aug 2018
Wishy Washy.

Tumbling,

Between high and low,

Hot and cold.

Am I delicate like the load of whites? do I need to refresh my color with a strong drink- bleach?

Or am I tough and resistant like denim? toss me in for an hour, shove soap down my throat, and I'll come out like new?

Maybe I'm a mixed load, balancing between the two; teeter-tottering from feeling to feeling.
The day I wrote this I had dreamt of someone who used to be very dear to me who I am having to forget, to better myself. She hurt me bad and I'd been having the same dream of us repairing our relationship for a few months now, and I've felt like a washing machine with my guts twisting and pulling with my emotions going from one end of the spectrum to the next; low in morning, high in the middle of the day, unknown at night. I've had amazing friends, Trixie, Luigi, Houk, Rin, Cait-Cait, and many others who've helped me through these past months who I can't thank enough for their continued support. Whenever I have these dreams and feel this way it feels like a step backwards and I end up feeling guilty for no reason just because I have them, and so I'm hoping that by writing this out it's a step in the right direction. Feeling like this is normal after you've spent some great times with someone you've cared about- weather it's months or years, it hurts and it's okay. I know time will heal these wounds eventually, so for now here's a Band-Aid.

Dedicated to everyone who's been hurt and felt this way or similar, and to my amazing friends;  I hope we all find what we need and can better ourselves, and be happy.
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