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island poet May 2018
“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville


~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018
ghazal Mar 7
at the edge of a roaring ocean, i paint a crimson sky.
seduced by love and affection,
i meld my broken heart with white washed tides.
and no matter what, i don't blame the sea for all that it did to me.
i'm just a soul going through life
only to realize that all i want is buried deep underneath.
yet i might drown to get what i need,
but on the off chance that i resurface,
i'll dig my way through the mud beneath.
i'll go through life with dirt under my fingernails just to feel some sort of purity inside.
and although crimson may paint a beautiful sunset,
i need red to fuel my blood.
until then,
i'll mix the white waters that wash up-

"and kneeling at the edge of the transparent sea, i shall shape from myself a new heart from salt and mud".
"and kneeling at the edge of the transparent sea, i shall shape from myself a new heart from salt and mud".
-anne carson
Anthony Arnieri May 2018
If I must,
It's best if I drown at sea.
Under shimmering moonlight,
Breathing in gulps of saltwater.
Slipping away from my life

The ocean would hardly notice if I spent eternity there.
I puncture the surface
Take my last breath of air

“It's no one's fault
But Darwins”
Skaidrum Feb 2016
"She is indeed the happiest Oracle of Leo the Lion,
            born as his innocent prophet
                                     of divine sunlight~
                 ­                  "eternal flower."
                                                        ­        :to recite the amber
                                                           ­      prophecies with
                                                         the lions ~fire'tongue~
                                                   in showers of orange rain.
She was the king's candle;
      a starlit lantern of medallion grace.
She wears a dress of violet promises and peace
              that tickles the wind to knock on the sky.
Asking the nightfall of questions in sleeping stars~
                                         "Why do I miss her?"
Her words were fused with kindness and marigolds;
                to cleanse the darkest infections within
                                                              a lion's soul
                                               and his injured pride.
You are so lonely, Leonie.
With your heart forgotten in the lions cave.
                   Loyalty is built on your visions and bones.
Yellow masks that paint the walls of your prison,
              and it's a sadness that the king cannot mend.
              So this isolation becomes the voice of reason.
and freedom is the voice of treason.

Deep within the lions den, the ceiling fell at 2 a.m,
                  ­                      :stones falling to their knees.
With hope and reckless saltwater dreams
                    she fled with ember feet to see
the moonlight showering in.

Notes of silver plucked the wind,
         as ink and blue stirred the rubble
There stood a girl, on cracked stone table;
with a white rabbits' mask and metallic hair.
         Willow vines weeping along her arms
dress as deep as crow feathers;
                         and the hush of a dragon's wing
swinging from her neck;
                        crystals throwing light in her wake.

"My prophecy said you would come."
futures that unravel at a white line in the dust;

                           And the darkness pulled on her robes of silk;
                                           while she took off the mask
                              and blue eyes met golden windows
                       Descending to meet the oracle in wisdom;
                               a warning whispered to her
                                         ties with solitude
        The moon spoke with a thousand tongues that night;

"You have to roar Leonie; So the heavens can hear you."
Are you brave enough to tell yourself
that you don't need tisha anymore my dear?
You've always been strong;
I believe in you.

© Copywrite Skaidrum
Drips a drop of saltwater
From the hand that wiped
Your tears away
You are beautiful my friend
Those fears that you had
Have grown you
Roots dug deep into the ground
Overgrown and overcome
An integration of yourself
Into yourself
let it grow let it be
Become like that tree
Arms strong and tall and
Unbending in the wind
That you’ve allowed to pin
Yourself to the wall.
Yama Day Tinta Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
Sarah Berube Oct 2017
Looking at someone who consumes you,
The color of their eyes the closest thing you have
To water in this desert.

Fish out of water
In this city of lost souls.
Their smile anchors your conscience.

The only thing that separates you
Is the center console and the
Same songs you always hear on the radio.

Wishing to listen to the
Songs that saved them.
Wishing that they would stay like
Saltwater in the ocean.

It is going to be ****
If I have to lose you in this
Place where no one leaves.
kaycog May 4
I won't ever ask for more
complaining, saltwater bitterness I will endure
Have you met me?
observe such a pretty face
cares not for creatures but reflections
that smile back with the warmth of a star struck harpy
blessed to shine another flashlight on an award winning blaze
A thousand nights ago, a little girl lay writhing in pain
As drops of saltwater soaked the crimson-stained sheets
Cries for help were silenced by the same ravishing hands that gripped her,as the man consumed her whole
Her light was fading out,her hands stretched out towards a silhouette
She was pleading,
She was praying
That the figure take a step forward,vanish the demon-man with her supposed light
But the woman in the shadows did nothing
She stood there cold as before
She did not flinch nor expressed anything in her distant eyes
She did not even claim the little girl after
She left her underneath the darkness as the little girl died a million deaths
It has been a long three years now and the little girl has grown
And she feels all wrong
Like she is too much
Like she is never enough
Because they took everything that she was
You have cursed her with the belief that she can only attain love and enlightenment through another
You have infected her with hate, now she craves the feel of the cold blade on her skin
Her lips have grown fond of the taste of the poison
And she constantly needs pain to numb the ache of emptiness
This is not like those other ******* apologies because she is tired of apologizing for existing
When you never apologized for the things that you allowed to happen
Nor is this her playing the victim card and blaming you
This exists to tell you that
She is sinking
The void is gaping
She is losing
And she is sorry for not being able to "**** it up"
Because when little girls bleed,they cry
And what they need is a mother's caress to help heal the wounds
Because when little girls get victimized,they feel pain
And what they need is a mother to protect them and dry their tears
But you don't know that and she is sorry
She is sorry that you never lived up to your title
She is so ******* sorry
cr Mar 25
standing in front of the pacific
sea salt hair, frothy finger scooping
water back into the sea
gulls hungry desperate endangered
if not for stranger's crisps
clawed baby *****
pincers at the ready
crushed by babies human
shell fractured by skin
hands held together by other hands
threaded together like a lifeline
families laugh, dolphin-like chortles
over nothing
at all
and sons and daughters
forgo their differences, chuck them
into waves with grey shore rocks, protect
their towels and castles and bodies
with sand moats, a starfish
plunked dead center
far away from home
iridescent sea shells collected
as jewels, worn around pretty
bruised necks of housewives
content in their one-day
ocean excursion turned revolution
solitude as i watch
and sit and think and think and
feel and watch some more
eyes like those saccharine
candy floss treats, cloying to
tongues and fingertips, alone
in another universe i am
with a family
tossing our children into ocean waves
dunking ourselves into the deep
collecting glinting shells for
our jewelry, breaking them
as they are shoved into plastic bags
but today
in this universe
i am the crab
crushed by skin
and flesh
and bone
a soulless thing
careful to observe, cautious, fleeting
to be fed upon, ******
dry by trauma,
licked off the fingers of
would-have-been acquaintances
a carcass of longing
for moremoremore

yet never quite certain
how to crawl towards it
lest i be
stomped upon

so i sit on the beach
inhale saltwater and laughter and affection
through my skin
and make friends with sea creatures
as lonely as i am
as insignificant
as me
i had to write this as a prompt for a creative writing class and u know what. it's going on here. bc fine !!
nd Sep 2018
We'll meet in the middle of nowhere
A place where only we know
With a secret route, we call it.

We'll meet in the middle of nowhere
A place where we plant sunflower seeds
With an untold feel, we call it.

We'll meet in the middle of nowhere
A place where bunch of monkeys live
With two monkeys telling jokes, we call it.

We'll meet in the middle of nowhere
A place where sand and saltwater meet
With us singing our songs, we call it.

And we'll meet in the middle of nowhere
A place where there's no one knowing us
With me and you, we name it.
he'll understand
Grace Ann Sep 2018
Do you know how hard it was to turn
away from your kiss
How hard it was to not throw
my face into your shoulder like
I have so many times before
Instead my saltwater threatened
my lips trembling with choked back words
I smiled and told you that I didn't want to push--
but this space between us right now
this increasing distance
You are the shore my sea-lost body craves
I long to sandwich my bare toes in your sands
and sink into your dry land
Instead I am floating aimlessly, helplessly
in a raft makeshift, broken bottles, vine
drifting further and further away
and my hands are scooping up the water with prayer hands
pleading with aching muscles
to let me paddle my way back to you
but every time I seem to be pushed
further and further from my goal
I need answers
You said that it wouldn't take
you long to formulate your response
and now a week has lapsed
and I'm still here
in this purgatory
wondering what it is that I could have done
what it is that I can do
to bring you to your senses again
Seldom do we wonder
At our own defenses
When lies are spreading
You run for cover of your fences
Underneath roofs and ceilings
You speak of the One
Who knows all your secret dealings
In the fire and the snow
The rainbow often turns yellow
Our ancestors dance on the edge of a needle
Blessing the fragments of your incarcerated heart
Imprisoned impermanence
Life is a lesson
Drunk on gypsum and water
You repeat this guttural embargo
Can we dance
Or do we follow
Grief is the missing piece in your puzzle
Saltwater runs down your face
I erase the razor’s path
Hundreds of fireflies insist you are their lover
In the diamond’s eye you become another
Sultry siren
Tumultuous teenagers breathe light and fire
Listen to the river going underneath your houses
Remove your clothes and wander in your underwear
With lungs of fire
You tread toward the tower
If we are stubborn we will one day get turned over
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
Watching a classic
Casablanca Class I Fix
Trix cereal for adults
Goddess sundress
The class act you need to guess
fit* no-one would
know vibrant
Getting the OJ of the miracle
Sunbathing at the

His skin news of the
The fix-up finale deeply
in her classic smile
Sunflowers of the sunray  
Tropicana class act deviant play

Quickdraw Gunfire
Her hot tango steps in action
Diamonds no chips
Big tips at the Gentleman
OH! Boy the cabana detention
Class I comes with affection
Kiss is not a kiss without a real scene

In action to miss a classic movie hit
Adventure Trips  flipping homes
In the classified newspaper middle section

She is the Classic with an illuminating passion

I the Classic one and he is
surfing the internet
So fit to be tied but casual love
She the same person wearing her
flip flops
******* off *Root beer float tops

The root of all evil
That She-devil Sire
Not the ordinary campfire

It takes a certain Class, I can fix peoples
problems  like great ***** of fire

We are not signs or perhaps it's in the signs
Where you came from no problems
Take action get more satisfaction
Army grenade we are all
fighting in action
Action speaks louder than words
One of a kind the rare find
A classification of her mind
Understand each other
do the hiring
  Trump in action job firing

What drives us and gives us
We need to love what is above
our minds
I believe sometimes you don't have to be where the action is

The Rainman Rainforest Vacation
You are the I phone off
with the ringer
Classic type Class I
Our computer all rules
codes and passwords
The religious Pope up front
He's the  Marlon Brando waterfront
You have the polka dot bikini

Panera Sandwich Panini
Orange you glad its cantaloupe
He wants to elope
your classic smile
Exclamation point
At Times Square you could
lift her for miles

Whether we look modern
The technology is always out of reach foreign
Or wearing your heart in his heart
Your wiggle walk
The classic style to talk
Fifties **** smoke
Born to be wildlife everything
is on Castaway
Or layaway on hold

And he is athlete runner so hype
Everyone is busy on
Twitter or Skype
The Facebook and photos

Dorothy loves wizardly Oz and Toto
Were all together like
a congregation, not a citation
Living in the city paying rent
Another wicked concert event

How many times did you get that notification?
The auction house in action the bid five times
Those hot leads of crimes
Playing for a nickel heads up dimes
Class act Quarterback
Elephant treasure trunk
ten commandment
Class, I lady leading the way
Class, I fix the parliament

Her classic fifty style army dress in action
Her bullet lips caught quite an attraction

Feeling the comfort food
Mac and Cheese
Silly names those 
 Canadian A&W
ATM Class I
The French fries do or dies
Skinny He's the Ham Mac
You're the spicy Cajun
on the speaker Mic
What classifies everything in
our life
High stunts action cliff taking a dive
**** Bill he kills me all the time

That Buffalo Bill Chicken Mac
Bombastic not the
forever love classic
With a whole list dark Raven
Crystal rock Haven

Everything lately goes so fast
Getting in Saint Anthony fire
She is the livewire
The gunfire or the cease her fire
Out of money  honey bee
******* mansion multiplier
Everything you're
near his or hers
Wineglass stir me
like an amplifier
What happens to your
responsibilities running
racing your own time
The  Coffee man suitor
My Godly dictator
The saltwater taffy-like lava
Comic Disney Pixstar meet Daffy Duck
Or you overqualified being lied too
Oh! Chuck

Like a candle in the wind its in
the science hot steamy
romance engagement
What awaits things to come
getting blown away
It just like any other day
How we classify things or lose things how our mind cannot remember your best words even writing a poem it takes practice more advice action speaks louder than words like the law and order. I think this poem might be your order. Please tell me how it classifies is this a class act to follow get your coffee fix action we will start the movie my poem classic relax
Magdalyn Oct 2018
I don't know
I guess what i'm trying to say is--
no, missing you
my eyes dancing around the fact that they want to spill,
writing this
goes against who i'm trying to be.
i lost you. it feels like you died
it hurts to know i cried over you because i can't compete
with your own problems
instead of being able to help them.
and i know i said i was fine
but all day i was pretending
and i know i'm going to keep having to pretend and i think that's a close second to why i feel like my stomach is on it's way out my throat.
you don't love me anymore. you say you do and i know you do
but it's never the way i want to be loved. with anyone
and it makes me even more angry that you know this
and that i'm tearing up in the library right now
and why do i care
so much
that's the other thing, that this will all blow over like a tidal wave
and eventually i won't feel like i swallowed a cruel saltwater  joke
i keep hoping you're joking
but the truth is the truth-- that the colors will never be as bright as yours were before this and we'll never be the same again,
even if you let me hold your hand again, hold my heart in your hand because i already gave you mine and need something to fill this
gaping hole --
well, now it's filled.
you do not remember,is what you should know first,
remind yourself that:
you do not recall writing an eulogy as a love letter,
you forget about the graves you've dug,
all the pretty faces and estranged loves you've buried here in agony once

foreplays should not burn as repeated pictures in the back of your mind–do not speak of how you have this body memorized—
so you do not put the same record on,
you do not dance in the same room,
you do not sway to the same tune,
offered first to those that intoxicated you with life

you do not light her mouth,gasoline boy
you do not fuel her insides
with the same lies that burned you
you do not kiss her still tasting like the bleeding red of someone else's lips

you do not,you cannot **** the sadness out of her
corpses do not feel anything,do not hear you pray to another god
corpses do not have hearts that break upon being touched by hands that know pleasurable pain well in the most repulsive ways
you do not look at the eyes burning with saltwater
you shrug it off as how you ignore warnings and triggers
we revel in the body's warmth,it feels good pretending it's alive, but the body pretends it's not here
pretends it's just paper skin and friction igniting,acting as catalyst of our self-initiated destruction

you chase your high
the locks come loose
everything unhinges from their hold
darling,there is nothing ghosts fear more than being lost

and after the deed is done
you do not stare at the remains,
you do not paint your face with empathy
it's all for love,it's all for fun
besides, dead girls do not bleed
nor do they cry
**** what
Jules Aug 2018
i have arrived at a point
of desperate fury;
a final certainty
that there is no longer a sustainable solution;
the realization that god was right
the only way to fix this horror
is to wipe it clean,
flood every sea,
drown everything in saltwater
and try again,
pretending all along we have just begun—

but no,
this time there may be no noah,
no single good survivor
except maybe the ones wronged the most,
maybe only the last of the trees,
maybe only the animals

this is to say:
if the human race went extinct
i would not grieve.
only thank the soil as it swallowed me,
only be disappointed because god,
was this the best we could do?
i would love to return
to a belief of more hope,
the someday-vision
of an earth where nothing suffers
and justice wields her scales like a weapon,
needing no blindfold,

but nowadays i only wonder
how we let the earth become this rotten,
let it get too far
and now the problem seems unfixable.
now, all we have to show for it
is a cumulation of debt
and a system that does not care for us.
death was right:
humans are foolish.
we are so good
at keeping things
when they are already lost,
tying them to our chests with hope
thinking we can save it.

but what better way
to halt the plague
than to raze it all to the ground,
set fire to the rotting at the core,
cut the roots and then restart.

to the child-saints we lost too early,
i pray:
tell god,
burn everything.
we need to try again.
we’re running out of options
I lay my woozy wobble head down
On the floor
And close the blinds over my eyes
And open up the windows to my ears
To listen to the lullaby that loneliness is playing for me on the radio

It sounds like low violin,
The sound bumblebees make,
Sad and sharp as the nails I dig into my palms
While I sway gently,
to myself
On the living room floor

I can hear the piano
In the song now,
Popping sweet
Like a blueberry on the nights tongue.
The piano is crying
I am crying too.

I keep the blinds closed
Search blindly
For the bottle
I left standing
Like a bowling ball pin
Tangled up in my hair
I kiss that bottle and she kisses me back
And we laugh while
Saltwater and grape blood
Dance awkward and slow on my tongue
Like they’re at their first
middle school dance
And their hands are clammy
But their hearts are racing

The song ends and lonely smiles
Just barely,
Like a crescent moon,
And treads lightly across my
hardwood mattress
Lonely curls up next to me, and we all fall asleep
Like that.
Wine bottle on one side,
Lonely on the other,
Right in the middle

- At least this time, it tasted like Pinot
Lyss Gia Jan 28
Mary, plain name.  Mary, mother of God
Mary, Queen of the ***** Mall
Mary, daughter of a King and a *****
Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands,
Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies.
Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes
Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41,
saltwater taffy legs, ****, and ***.
Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen
Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls.
Mary has no titles, Mary is a *******, Mary is an exile.
Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots.
Mary has disciples, all named Judas.
She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer.
She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco.
Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy.
Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives.
Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols.
Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army.
Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr.
Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand.
A graceful end, a unceremonious departure.
Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups.
Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds,
Left her in the ***** mall mausoleum.
Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions.
Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Christy Lei Oct 2018
at the hot dense center of
the cosmic *****,
the cloud spins
as it collapses, contracting,
teasing the hidden
****** of the universe —
a frenzy ****** of the solar nebula
discharges random
proto-planets, among them is
our embryonic Earth.

let all the amniotic fluids, the metallic
and silicate liquids, the red spicy
volcanic magma, the sweet
water vapor, the rainfall,
lukewarm saltwater
*** that makes up
the oceans
and lakes,
let them spill over
the continental crust,
cover its thick skin, rocky veins,
let the long river split into two ever-
flowing streams; watch the double-helix spin:

  X    X                X    Y
   xylophonic,               xenophobic,
    why me,               why you,
why us?               why —
the world               divides.
     two hemispheres,               four cerebral lobes:
             left  &  right,               america, australia,
                    joined by one               antarctica, afro-eurasia,
    equator, the corpus callosum.              all found in one human skull.

but what if
science is a conspiracy and geology a
faux pas like phrenology? —
and the world is flat:

we are all
test-tube babies
bred in a Petri dish, cells
cultured in a round celestial disc.
Mallory Michaud Dec 2018
You know,
It’s just me but I guess I just find it
That people say it’s girls who have loose lips
When the boys at this table have mouths
Like open caves
With stalagmite teeth
Bats come flying out

I guess,
It’s just my magic trick,
The way I become invisible
When the boys
Sit down for dinner
And they open up their backpacks
And their gym bags
And pull out butcher knives
That shine like brand new quarters
In the cafeteria fluorescents

I’m not sure,
But maybe
The churning of my stomach
Is a sign
That there’s sharks
In these waters
I feel my wet socks in my wet shoes as I jiggle my knee
And watch the boys
With their knives
Start chopping up girls on the plastic top table

They cut slices off of Julia
and Megan
And Kara
and lob them across the table
to their friends
Just Like the men at
Pike Place Fish Market
Fling whole salmon
Into each other’s gloved hands
I saw them do it
When I went to Seattle once.
I feel water climbing up my legs.
I see a shark fin.

Did I blush red?
When the boy next to me catches
Katie’s legs
In his calloused hands
And laughs a laugh that sounds like
An out of tune violin
They’re all laughing now,
Like car horns and fire alarms
Laughing about
Katie’s legs
And Kara’s ***
And Megan’s hips
And Julia’s ****
It’s the ugliest orchestra I’ve ever heard

And perhaps,
I’m the only one who’s noticed,
But we’re not in the cafeteria anymore
We’re right there
In that room
In that bed
In that moment
And I don’t want to be there.

And I know,
For sure,
No maybes,
That If JuliaMeganKaraKatie knew
We were all here too
In her room
In her bed
In her
That she’d cry enough saltwater
To flood the whole earth
And wash it clean.

We leave the table
Bones on the floor
Shark boys clean their teeth with toothpicks
My clothes are soaked
All the way up to my neck.

-I never go in the ocean, I’ve seen the sharks when they frenzy.
Sparrow Mar 15
The sunset by the sea
My feet *****, embedded
in the sand
As the waves greet me with ferocity

Punching back with clenched fists
Saltwater foam, elegant comb
through my hair
The ocean with all its depth condescending

All the colours of the universe in
a sky tainted, so gloriously painted
like a fresco
Of an olden cathedral I'd never seen

Sweat and salt and sand in my clothes
My eyes swollen, their whites stolen
Innocent are not the tears of the sea

Slow as the waves recede
with the retreating tide
So does the venom in my veins
and come loose the nails in my head
The shore sprayed with new hope
The night sky of a new moon arrives
Darkness heralds doubt
Yet I'm relieved to be
in the absence of the light
that seeked to
blind me last night
Went to my grandma's place by the sea.
Needed a little headspace, and a lot of grandma's cooking :)
I feel light after spending an afternoon at the beach, letting the waves hit me.
And all this without a single smoke!
Ira Desmond Apr 8
Capitalism will draw
and quarter you. Capitalism
will stretch your cells,
like saltwater taffy
until their membranes tear apart.
Capitalism will seek
to extract as much profit as it can
from your aging body,
and then, after it’s had
its way with you, Capitalism will do
the same thing to your children’s bodies.

Capitalism will tell you
to treat yourself to
a hundred-dollar Waygu beef
burger with gold leaf and
a perfectly fried egg on top
(along with a piece of New York
cheesecake for dessert),

and Capitalism will tell you
that your body is hideous,
shameful. Go to the gym
already and fix your
disgusting fat thighs. And do
something about
those stretch marks
from your latest pregnancy.
How could you
allow yourself to look like that?
And why not try these slimming
garments to hide your

Capitalism will tell you
that you’re beautiful just the way you are.
It will show you unphotoshopped ads
with curvy women wearing no makeup
and smiling, confident and empowered,
while it whispers in your ear
about how woke it’s become.

And Capitalism will tell you
that actually
your **** and *** big aren’t big enough.
Why don’t you look like a Kardashian, and
why can I still see your pores?
The way you’re doing your
eyebrows is so last year, and
how are you ever going to meet
the right man
with that basic ***** wardrobe?

Capitalism will tell you it’s time
to start a family. In fact,
time is running out
for you to start a family.
(Tick-tock tick-tock.)
It will show you
pictures of smiling babies, swaddled safely
in warm cribs.
(Tick-tock tick-tock.)
It will show you
images of storks wearing delivery caps
and white two-story houses
in well-to-do suburbs
where everyone has a nice job,
and the schools are good,
and they still get together for block parties
and barbecues every year
on the Fourth of July.

And Capitalism will tell you
that actually now’s not the time
to start a family,
that you need to
work hard to be successful, and, really,
you should be willing to commute
a few hours each day
if the job is worth it.
Capitalism will tell you
that nobody gets ahead without
hard work
(an outright lie),
that everybody else is working harder
than you are
(another outright lie),
and that you need to have a side hustle
if you want to keep the pace
(another outright lie).

And Capitalism will also tell you
that you need a vacation
or else you’ll burn out.
Capitalism will tell you that
your vacation needs to be epic,
the trip of a lifetime,
deeply Instagrammable,
or you’ll have done it all wrong.
Capitalism will tell you
that you should spend extra
to stay in that luxury over-ocean villa
in Bora Bora, and if
you don’t stay in that luxury
over-ocean villa in Bora Bora, then
you must not be working hard enough,
you must not be
one of the worthy ones.

Capitalism will tell you
to stay informed, always,
about what’s happening in the news
because keeping up with the news
is important for educated citizens
like you and me.
Capitalism will tell you to keep following the news,
to keep reading Twitter to the point
where you’re anxiously,
repeatedly pulling down
to refresh,
waiting for the UI to refresh itself,
fixated, always
waiting for the Tweets to refresh

And then Capitalism will tell you
that actually you need to be medicated,
because the problem is you here
and really you’re way too anxious,
and life is too short, and
you deserve to be well, don’t you?
Capitalism will prescribe you
drugs to enhance
the other drugs it’s prescribed you already
and then give you more drugs to combat
the side effects
of your other drugs
and then it will sell you more drugs
to reverse any overdoses on
your other drugs
that you might end up having

Capitalism will tell you
to do everything you do
as hard as you can possibly do it,
because Capitalism is
at its very core
a glutton
and a ******.

But one thing that Capitalism
will never tell you to do
is this:

Climb, *****,
to the top of a verdant
in late spring
on the night of a full
Do not howl
at the moon.
breathe deeply.
Place yourself
in the fetal
amongst the coarse
sage and grasses,
their branches and blades to scratch
your skin,
while the centipedes
emerge from the dirt,
and slither over your body
and the crickets
and the mist
of your dead forebears
washes over you
and communes with you,
laying bare
those unquantifiable truths
that Capitalism has never known,
and will never know,
and will therefore never reveal to anyone.
While exposed
in this fashion,
realize that the whole of this Earth, too,
is exposed, *****, fetal—
every bit
as alive and as vulnerable as you are.

Capitalism will draw and quarter the both of you.
Seagulls fly over me.
Sticky sand rubs against my toes.
Saltwater slides down my throat.
I see ice-cream nearby.
This place is paradise or at least
the closest I've come to it.
I prayed a silent prayer:
"Please God, I never wanna leave
this place."
Unfortunately, I did, but
I always leave a piece
of my heart along the shore.
Hopefully, a mermaid will
find it.
Broken Social Scene - Anthems For A Seventeen-Year-Old Girl
Preston Gearin Oct 2018
My mind is a tangle of cognitive dissonance.

Oh, how mysterious. This emotion comes in waves.
I’m delirious when I let my heart cave.
Carve a mask for my face; no my smile isn’t fake
but my happiness is temporary and depression is my default.

Life can be sweet, but I mostly taste sea salt.
grace Jul 2018
the blue sky overwhelmed your face and absorbed it

stealing your
saltwater chapped lips,

your smokey eyes and hands
that felt so much like letting go.

i went out too far into the ocean

until it consumed me

and my hair turned red and tangled with seaweed;

my mouth was filled with the bitter nostalgia of the morning

i woke up

and your room was empty.

i choked and i choked,

my lungs filling with water

i am so dehydrated without you

if only i could drown in the ocean

before you swallowed my heart
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