The past is throbbing in the back of my hippocampus
Bringing back redundant memories
They are not wanted
My brain has been saged
Cleansed from the unwanted presence
My soul has been purified

Why do people readily believe
When you tell them:
There are 7 billion stars
but check when the paint is wet?

Fall and I'll catch you,
No need to look back
over your shoulder,
I'll be there,
I promise.

I used to be indecisive,
but now I'm not sure,
I do know however
My intentions are pure.

How come sand is yellow,
Why is it that when you draw a tree
it always looks like broccoli?
Why is it that when I eat broccoli
I always imagine it to be
a tiny tree?

I munch delicately
on this green leafy
thought nugget,
tasting each sprouty morsel,
savoring its saged wisdom.

translation from russian by rolanda


                                                   E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-**** body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease  walk
the female wolf her concrete ******,
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******.
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and  morning flow down by sunrise on wood

by Dmitrij Poparev

I enjoy the way the pink spring breeze
grazes my rouged cheeks.
Though a little chilly,
a thrift store sweatshirt squeezes
back against my body,
shielding overwhelming brisk.

Jermaine's voice trickles between my eardrums,
but I pause a moment,
words of howdy, hello,
"Oh," I breathe, "yes, I couldn't
remain inside another minute!"
The hey's and hello's,
those are the chords of C, of G,
and, strange though,
how sometimes I prefer a flat or sharp.

Some chords though harsh at first taste,
they stew on the tongue,
relinquish sweet, succulent juice at last;
sweet reward,
satisfying relief.

I feel the grin stretch, slink
across my canvas,
the reverberations of a cackle,
boisterously beating against
my far-from-hollowed chest,
for full it feels,
full it is,
filled with filling full
of warmth, light, fulfilling fulfillment.

There is merely of tiny moments
a collection,
most prized,
as if I had begun many moons ago,
knowing did I do before I knew,
gathering each grain to
make a beach,
each blade of green,
making a lawn of bluegrass,
with a sprinkle of a flower or two;
deep within self,
collecting,
gathering
to now feel stillness,
& admire that treasure.

I gaze intently ahead,
streaks of magenta, a citrusy jaune,
(yellow of course),
juicy orange,
dripping into a soft
periwinkle,
reminding me of play dates,
chocolate chip cookies,
only the special, secret recipe
on special occasions,
today, could you be one,
every day, an occasion
to taste the secret recipe,
soft chocolatey, dangerously delicious,
melting into my tongue?
This sunset,
tranquil spring night,
oh how it tastes,
smells of the endless possibilities,
special occasions.

So wise, rich with knowledge,
how the recent past has left
me
saged with experience,
yet energy & zest,
of youthfulness,
I sigh outwards,
hard;
breathe in the wonder.

Family, friends, lovers,
neighbors, coworkers, classmates,
father, mother,
sister, brother;
the world uncoils, unfolds
like watching from the outside,
yet exploding within,
I burst outward.

My mind, oh does it race,
faster I am sure than
any body could carry.
It bends, twists,
molds, sinks, festers,
bubbles,
boom, pop, trickle,
it goes.

Creating art,
that is all we do.

I hear that sweet voice,
a melody of its own,
whispering secrets of past pain
and future plans;
I hold them all dearly, as
dearly can exist.

Strum my emotions,
pluck my thoughts,
slide down my dreams,
pick my desires,
bellow my fears,
harmonize my anguish,
release the echoing,
play the notes found
in the deepest chorus,
the sounds I can make
from the beating of my own heart,
the rhythm of heavy breathing,
giving birth to a story.

Still I am writing it,
but of course,
black pen smudges against
my tiny fingertips;
Mother always did tease,
for how I hold my utensil for
words, well, "That's just like me,"
she would giggle right now,
if she were to see,
that giggle just like the one
someone loves
coming from me.

A pen to a blank page,
again I go,
in due time the world will know,
and back to me will It boomerang.

Where there was once a sense of
apprehension,
the way this slow, meticulous wind smells,
tastes,
feels as it strokes my face,
all I may now ponder
is a simple, tasty desire;

The journey, how delightful it is.

There are tunes to play, sing;
oh how there are jigs to dance.

Mouths that can open wide & scream loud, but not shrill,
toward the heavens.

Smells to create with fresh baked goods,
peaches to burst open with teeth
hungry for its, their juices.

Flowers yet to bloom,
more in the tender April 'noons ahead.

Steps to stomp on a run in new kicks.
A soft pair of lips to kiss.

Jokes to be told.
Laughs to be shared.

Lines to cross.
Fast pulses to feel.

Claps of thunder to steal the blue sky.
Silent tears to slip down cheeks
worn from years.

Philosophies to analyze.
Friends to meet, greet, make, take; bonds to create.

Games to play.
Long, strung out giggles
from little ones,
innocence so pure & poetic.

Dreams to make realities.
Loves to have, but loves too to lose.

CIties to visit.
Language to speak, share,
stutter, misunderstand,
exchange,
accomplishing dialogues,
communicating in hushed
whispers,
sweet nothings nuzzled,
brushed
against my ear.

I've got some living to do;
living with me, but also
living with you.

Mercurial in my moods,
I switch up, off and on
Mercury rules me
Disputations nailed upon
My churches doors
Gemini explores
Sagittarius saged
and Cancer galore

You cannot buy indulgences
And use them on me
The only swaying I do
Is when the wind blows the trees
On a cool summer evening
When the Moon is nigh
And Orion looks down
From his hunt in the sky

.
.
Words are like keys if you choose them right .
They can open any heart or shut any mouth .
TheMindsJournal.com



I opened up . . .
dumped out the words
kicked them hard !
       CRACK !
goes a breaking rib
There is no mercy that I give
Stomped them flat
Sretched them out
Made them squeal
before I made them shout
I grabbed them naked by the throat
Squeezed so hard I made them choke
I made pain flash in their eyes
I made them pay for all their lies
Their hot fear sweated out
I was resolved without a doubt
Red blood running cold
All their soul I bought and sold
I made them wish they had never been saged
Before I made a morgue of the page

Older in the punch
Blessed in the time, of a unity to egg
Beg me a shoulder, a duty in a hunch
Satiety is a walk with truth's we fate to a rhyming neglect?

Bitterness is in heaven...
Haunted milling of a sense of rage...
Lessoned hindrance to fortify the accord of leaven...
Simple arrogance, in favor of the music to face...

Sweet?
Sourer than dread itself...
Made to cruise and tarry, the work of an angel
Threatened by the scope of your admission, an unction of health?

Such a fight, for a piece of bread?
Aloof tones of demand and the scale of uniqueness, to worry
Is a relationship with sense, apropos to a kick in the head?
Or is this sickness of vice, and its victory with anxiety and fury?

Twist of patience and the cornerstone of the rhyme
Sickness is our day, and the day comes with a price
Saged as a mortal coil can be, to welcome home a whole trying
Is still a relationship with exhumation and wishes to wizen...

Your father and penicillin...
Pride and the door of infamy...
One more time, is a master of time, willing
To show you the ropes, or is worth, an estranged vanity?

My body aged—my spirit saged,
  all time a fading lie

My wishes getting younger,
  a bigger piece of sky

My body died—the world revived,
  different than before

My spirit free to roam at last,
  and fly forever more

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2018)

Blood, hearts, and mud mired mythology
all fail to describe that desire for pale skin and lust's fire.


But I still can't see past the crush,
mind blanks and stomach stabbed by nausea shanks
what the ****.


I feel half my age and not in the good way often espoused by the saged
But in the small way that makes you remember how powerless you were.
How powerless you are.


When the fever breaks you're not getting better.
When the sickness passes you're not getting better.
Scars mar hope's north star.
Until you can't find your way forward.
Until just going anywhere gets you more and more lost.

I saged the room,
but the ghosts keep vaping,
blowing rings of blame
with burnt-out coils
and Irish Goodbyes.
They keep telling me to calm down
while rearranging my furniture.

I dream of strangers' hands,
too much of a stranger to know
what to leave behind,
pressing my grief
into neat little boxes.

I keep forgetting which ones
hold his name
and which ones hold mine.
The world spins without me,
the shadow I left behind
frozen in place.

I thought closure was a door,
but it’s a hallway with no exit,
the same door I keep slamming
in my own face.
Empty rooms painted
in the bluest regret.