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JP Goss Dec 2018
The last of the angels’
Castaway nametags
Hung from the plush red edges
Of the art deco interior.
A breeze from the open door
Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor
Advertising his services
For the special remediation program
Since he could not sleep
What with all the voices
From below chanting his name—
How he envied the people he killed:
For they were spoken so little of.
That is, except for on his intake sheet:
After passing over the names,
Seven in all,
Whose lives were, shameless,
Shed over ***,
The latch clicked
And out came the doctor’s hand
Beckoning through the door
A “come hither” gesture.
On the couch he sat,
Neck conforming perfectly to the couch
As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs
Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man.
Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent
He knew exactly why Elliot had come:
Perhaps the intentions were dubious,
Perhaps he was looking
For quick solutions;
Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help:
Too easily, these days, was it
To determine dysfunction in the masculine—
And this case was rare,
Awash in chatter from below.
So, there must be something deeper
Rooted in fear of perpetual
Romance fetishism
And absence of its referent.
Yes! The penetrative is missing—
The limerant object
Is without form, shapely, and feminine
And would forever escape him,
In part by suicide,
In part by isolation.
The reason you are here
Is the absent-present offspring
Of such missing ***,
A veritable porcupine-dilemma
In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital—
See now in this face of mine.
Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed
What ails
Let us explore what solutions
Could have been:
The living world does offer suitable surrogates
For those lacking—
Recognizing this is the first step
To being forgotten,
To allow you to sleep.
Yes, you recognized then
The gun as the extension of the phallus
And it levels the playing field
Raised up, aroused by power
One feels when operating heavy machinery—
Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg,
The bullet is the *****,
Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour
Impregnating her with life inverted
And creates, in death,
The child of ****** frustration.
While this child is one of children lost,
It is child nonetheless.
Yes, and this gun, the metal *****,
***** not one
But many—in fact, incestuously,
It ***** entire families,
Entire communities,
And leaves their lives gravid
With your legacy.
Yes, it is the only way to create
The ultimate matron, the universal feminine,
The supreme m-Other
For the Supreme Gentleman.
And you, as you see me,
Are the absent-present of this child of death
This union of bullet-***** and the whole-body womb,
With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself.
But, here’s the secret,
Because of this, you can only do damage control:
Your child will prevail.
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
So, have the voices stopped?
Has the child matured in you?
You are on your way to being forgotten,
But the child lives on:
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
Guns are bad--but why are we attracted to them? Why do men **** women?
Arcassin B Sep 2015
By Arcassin Burnham


everyday that we don't talk,
I swear I just lose my mind,
I'm drowning in pain,
Losing track of time,
Is it headaches or grime,
I just hope we haven't lost our time,
Hoping everything will suffice,
And even though it's dead,
And it's made up,
I put the painkillers in a cup
Behind the T.v,
Thinking about the recent history
We had but instead...
Love I don't mind,
Putting trust in me that I thought
I had in myself,
I would have it any other way
Good and bad health,
Why won't you trust me,
Lissy,
I don't mind.

__________


Three headed hell-pits,
Lingering at my soul,

Head or tales , take your pick,
Your teenage soul's set old,

Learning,
All about my past,
The breaking of the wine glass,
Hearts cold , but filled with decadence,
Days of the unknown,
Walking through diamond valley,
These Mists get a little clearer,
But you gotta get the clearer picture,


Don't call your friends
And get drunk,
Why are these hearts so cold?

Rorschachs all over my face,
Be glad that it's not mold,

Learning
That you'll never be mine again,
And we'll never be more than
Acquaintances,
Now-a-days its a little personal,
I can  endure a little hate and discrimination,
And your determination to ridicule,
Just know...
...I don't mind if its you.
I just miss you as my friend......
Ryan Nov 2023
enslaved by fire
forced to watch, our souls
collective masochism
hive mind tragedies
the hand that feeds
whose existence is ceased
singing no more
melodies, somber
softly if any
a wince in the ether
beacons deceive her
ripples of light
rorschachs of sky
tearing our pages
erasing guests
laugh at,
meaningless
mass extinction
Ed May 18
Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand,
And this is the first time I could bring myself to speak about it.
I was a child again, a single mother.  
I didn’t like to think about it one bit.

I write poetry to make beautiful Rorschachs
Of the scars it leaves.

--

Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand.
She couldn’t face me but when she curled up in her car seat,
And allowed herself to cry under the moon,
It was like looking in a mirror.

From this poem is born ugliness.
No amount of rose-tinted beer goggles or incense could excuse it.

--

Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand.
Today I reach for the bottle.

Tragic poetic means to an end.
The child I wish I could hold,
Plastered into the yellow wallpaper, I thought:
I am. I am. I am.

— The End —